


Confessions

by gmariam



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Episode: s01e13 End of Days, Episode: s02e01 Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, Ianto's Diary, Jack's return, M/M, Post-Episode: s01e13 End of Days, Post-Episode: s02e01 Kiss Kiss Bang Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-07 11:08:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15217859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gmariam/pseuds/gmariam
Summary: Ianto keeps a diary, detailing his life and work at Torchwood. When Jack returns from his time with the Doctor, he shares it as the best way to reconnect.





	1. The Diary

**Author's Note:**

> I don't usually leave notes before the story, but this one probably needs a few. This story was originally a sequel to Quite a List, an AU story about Jack and Ianto becoming friends after the stopwatch incident, and not lovers until much later. It was originally posted at fanfiction.net in 2014 under the title Letters from a Diary. I've edited it to stand alone here as a canon story—which was tricky in places given its original connection to my AU story, but I think it works.  
> As for the timeline, I know it's all over the place in Torchwood, so I've made my choices as informed as possible. Jack and Tosh went back to 1941 at the end of January 2008, the Rift cracked not many days after, and he left with the Doctor by the end of the month. He was gone for almost four months, during which time Harold Saxon continued to rise in power until May, when he became Prime Minister and sent Torchwood Three to the Himalayas (Some timelines place this in June.) And of course, when they returned, they found he'd shot the American president and then been killed by his own wife in turn.  
> There is a second part that is narrative. I hope you enjoy them both.

_1 February 2008_

It has been almost a week since Jack disappeared. Left. Ran away. I thought that would be enough time to be able to write something, but it's not. I'm still upset, still confused, still hurt. And I'm too damn tired to even try sorting it out. We're one man short now, one  _leader_  short, and it feels like the world is going to hell around us.

All over again.

And so while I had many things to write, they will remain unsaid because I don't even know where to begin. Maybe tomorrow, Rift willing.

* * *

_7 February 2008_

The Rift is, as ever, unwilling to cooperate. It seems the consequence of fully opening the Rift, releasing Abaddon, and then slamming it shut through Jack's sacrifice has left it completely unstable. We're running ourselves ragged. We're overworked, understaffed, tired, angry, and lost. Frankly, Cardiff will be lucky if Torchwood doesn't implode before the Rift does. And there goes the world, in a fit of emotional, exhausted, interpersonal pique.

Jack picked a bad time to leave us on our own.

* * *

_13 February 2008_

Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. Last year I was with Lisa, enjoying a nice dinner, a walk through the park after an unexpected snow, and a hell of a shag that had us both breathless and laughing on the floor when it was over. And then we simply talked, curled up on the sofa under a blanket. We talked about the future, about spending it together, and what that might look like and feel like.

It was not aliens and guns and running and hiding and screaming and blood and death. It was a house and a job and a family—weekends at the beach, evenings at the local pub quiz, saving up for the latest West End musicale or a weekend in Paris.

That future ended at Canary Wharf, and though I tried so hard, any other future I'd hoped for with Lisa was lost several months later. At times, I thought I might have found another future, an unexpected and very different one—and highly unlikely. Yet now the chance to explore that future is gone.

I wonder where he is at this moment? Will he ever come back to us, or is his life destined for the stars, while we guard the home front, still so lost and confused?

* * *

_15 February 2008_

Fuck the goddamn Rift, spitting out shit like there's no tomorrow. Fuck Torchwood and Weevils and space junk and glow-in-the-dark alien rashes that itch like the bloody pox.

And fuck Jack Harkness. For coming here, for staying, for making us believe we could do this, and then for leaving us with this fucking rip in space and time.

Alone.

* * *

_17 February 2008_

I would apologize for my last entry, but it would seem slightly ridiculous to apologize to myself in my own diary. I enjoyed the bottle of scotch in Jack's cabinet, though, and if he ever comes back, I will replace it.

In the meantime, the Rift beckons. Or maybe it's the MOD again, asking for Jack and trying to bleed information out of me instead. Or perhaps it's more sodding paperwork this time. It's all starting to blend together...aliens and paperwork and politics, oh my…

* * *

_25 February 2008_

The MOD is still trying to crawl up my ass, UNIT won't stop ringing Jack's office, and even the Queen's representative has requested a video conference. I'm tired of running missions, of running interference, of running from aliens every other night.

And I'm tired of trying to hold together a team that is still bleeding (often quite literally) and raw and lashing out at each other because we have no one else to lash out at.

I'm just tired.

* * *

_1 March 2008_

That implosion I mentioned last month? I suspect it will happen soon.

It's been so long now that we should have adapted, but it's only grown worse. Everyone is near their breaking point. I see what's happening around me and yet I can't stop it, no matter how hard I try. I'm not him. We need a leader, and we need Jack. We need his crazy way with people—the pushing and pulling, the impulsive improvisation, the grim determination to do the right thing no matter if it hurt like hell—even the incorrigible flirting. I know he may have questioned his ability to lead us after everything that happened over the past year, but somehow, he did: he made us a team. And even if it was with paper and string at times, it worked. He held us together, but now we are finally starting to fall apart.

We  _need_  him. Where the hell is he?

* * *

_6 March 2008_

It's been well over a month now since he left, and there is one thing I don't understand: why didn't he ever say anything?

It's not as if we didn't suspect things about him. I worked at Torchwood One, and I knew about the Doctor. I knew he was at Canary Wharf. I also knew Jack was different, and not only from reading his files or nosing about in the Archives. He let things slip about how old he really was, or he'd brush off his unique healing ability, and he admitted one night that he was from a different time, a different place.

But immortality? Gwen knew about it. Apparently, Jack told her...well, she saw it happen, and I guess there's no keeping it secret after being shot in the head and standing up without a bullet in your brain. I wish he'd told me, though.

I suppose I can't blame him for keeping his secrets close. God knows I've kept my own. And his was big, I'll grant that. Gwen says he had so many questions, that Jack wanted the Doctor to give him answers, to fix his immortality. But how could he go without saying something? Without warning us that one day he'd be leaving, returning home? It's fairly obvious now that Jack was one of his companions; Torchwood One suspected it, of course. So he's gone back to the stars; why couldn't he have at least said goodbye?

I hope that he finds what he's looking for. And I hope, rather selfishly, that he comes back to us if he does, even though he has no reason to return to this poor, backward planet.

Why? We need him to lead us. To save us from each other. To keep UNIT from taking over and the MOD out of our business.

And to put me back together, like you did once before.

* * *

_10 March 2008_

Jack,

Owen is being one hell of an arsehole. Of course, he's still dealing with a lot—losing Diane, killing his boss, getting shot by the teaboy—but we all are dealing with shit right now. He's taking it out any way he can, though, and while I understand, having had a hell of a time after Lisa died, I hate seeing him hurt the others, especially Tosh. She's been a good friend through all this, but is still struggling so much herself, and he's not making it any easier.

I'm also really tired of managing his hangovers. One of these days he will get instant coffee when he snaps at Tosh, and I don't give a damn about the consequences.

Gwen can handle herself. In fact, it would appear she's stepped in and officially taken over given Owen's current inability to lead. Tosh doesn't seem to mind, and I can't say I'm inclined to argue with it either. Owen can't do it and someone has to. My job now is to make sure Gwen doesn't screw up, because damned if I'll see Tosh or even Owen hurt due to her bull-headed ignorance.

I'm fairly certain she will cock it up at some point, given she's been here less than a year and still has such a narrow-minded understanding of most of the things that are the reality of life with Torchwood. So we'll play the game this way: she leads up front, I lead behind the lines.

I've already done enough paperwork to last me a lifetime; I've got the blisters from that damn fountain pen on your desk to prove I forged your name on well over a hundred documents last night. I've talked to UNIT, the palace, and even Harold Saxon almost every other day, assuring them that everything is fine and that you...well, that you went undercover to track down an alien smuggling ring.

Dammit, Jack. I forged your signature dozens of times before you left. I even lied for you to the PM's office before. But this...this bothers me. I didn't just lie for you, I lied  _about_ you. I lied to keep the MOD off our backs, to keep UNIT from coming after Tosh, to keep Whitehall from putting someone else in charge, but frankly, I don't like it. I knew what I was doing all those other times, what I was lying about. This time I have no idea. You could be anywhere, anytime, doing anything. You might be thinking about us and trying to get back, or you might be having the shag of your life in some bar on a backwater planet in the Alpha Centauri system. You ran off without a word and left us. So sometimes a part of me wonders why I'm still doing this.

Then the alarms go off, and we stop a group of Ogrons from destroying Mermaid Quay, and in spite of another concussion, I know I'm doing it for Cardiff, and for Torchwood. I'm doing it to keep Tosh safe, to keep Gwen from failing, to keep Owen from breaking.

And all the while I'm trying to keep my own head above water, wishing there was someone to keep me from drowning.

* * *

_15 March 2008_

Jack,

This week we ran down a Blowfish gang. We stopped an incursion of beautiful but carnivorous alien birds that flew through the Rift. We threw thirty-six Weevils back into the sewers over the course of five days. And we managed to barely negotiate the end to an interstellar war across space and time between two aliens races no bigger (or frightening) than squirrels.

Unfortunately, we also had the implosion that I knew would happen. I'm surprised it took so long. Six weeks. Six weeks that we've been our own. At times, it almost seemed like we might make it, but I suppose we were only fooling ourselves.

I didn't think it would be Tosh to snap, though. It was Owen's constant pushing that finally set her off. I'm sure the painkillers from her third major injury in the field this month didn't help, but she lashed out at him for being such a prick. He snapped back, his words unbearably cruel. So I punched him.

Well, better than shooting him again, as tempting as it was.

Gwen pulled me off. I remember calling her a gap-toothed cow, which was when Owen threw a right hook that caught my jaw hard, and we both went down in the proverbial yet literal jumble of arms and legs. Gwen stood there and stared while we fought, so it was Tosh who stopped us, with a grim ferocity I've rarely seen from her.

Actually, it was the combination of her yelling, of having cold coffee tossed in my face, and of hearing the empty mug hit the ground and shatter. It brought us all to our senses. With barely a word, we all went home.

We came back the next day and laid some ground rules. And for the last thirty-six hours, things have been calm. The Rift—hell, even Owen—has been quiet.

So did we fail by falling apart, or succeed by picking ourselves up and moving on? I guess only time will tell. And if you return, you can decide whether you missed a good floor show or need to write us up.

Just return soon, Jack.

* * *

_20 March 2008_

Jack,

I've come to accept that you left for good reason. And that you had other reasons for not telling us about it. The one thing I learned from you, above all others, is the power of forgiveness. You forgave me after Lisa, you forgave Tosh and Owen and Gwen their mistakes. It's one of those things so many people don't see in you: your tremendous strength of heart and your unwavering belief in and loyalty to others.

I'm writing this because I forgive you. You did something you had to do, something you had been waiting for a long time to do, it seems. I know how that feels, so I cannot judge. Sometimes the most damning choices are the only ones we can make.

I'm still hurt that you never said anything about leaving, to me or any of the others. I'm still upset that you left so abruptly, so soon after we got you back. I still have moments when I am angry that we are alone in this now…that I'm alone.

And I still miss you.

But I forgive you for leaving us so suddenly, so unexpected, so hurtfully. Come back to us, Jack. We're coping now, but we still need you.

Especially with the MOD. I don't trust them. And by them, I mean Harold Saxon. He won't leave us alone.

* * *

_24 March 2008_

Jack,

I feel like I should confess something, something I never told you after you and Tosh came back from 1941. There was hardly time after the Rift splintered, and then you left.

You know that I shot Owen, and that I did it to stop him from opening the Rift.

He thought I was a poor shot, but I really was aiming for his shoulder, because I wasn't trying hard to stop him. I wanted you back, both of you. How could we leave you there, stuck in the past, when we had no idea how you would survive, and when we were so close to succeeding?

Never let it be said I cannot make hard decisions that require sacrifice, though it is much easier to make selfish ones, which are usually the wrong ones.

A part of me shot him to hurt him, because he hurt me. It seems so petty now, so childish and immature now that you're gone. But you know Owen—he said something about being just the teaboy, about being your part-time shag, and honestly, that bothered me. Oh, I had no long-term expectations even then, but the thought that our unconventional relationship might devolve into (or be seen as) something so shallow really struck a chord. That's not what I wanted from you, or to be for you.

So fuck Owen, he doesn't know what he's talking about. And at least he hasn't mentioned it since I punched him in the face.

Jack, I don't know if you are ever coming back, but if you do, I hope we can be friends again. Because I miss that. I miss working with you—making coffee, chasing aliens, even bothering you about your paperwork. I also miss our talks and our games and the stopwatch and that coat. I may not completely understand why you left, but I know that you had your reasons. So if there is any reason whatsoever for you to come back, I hope that you do. But I won't assume anything about our relationship.

Besides, I know I can't wait forever.

* * *

_28 March 2008_

Jack,

After our mutual team breakdown, we decided to try something we hadn't done since...well, since before you left. To celebrate a week of no infighting whatsoever (bitter, sarcastic, or derisive comments aside), we went to the Dockside after work last weekend for drinks. It was awkward at first, given what had happened (and I didn't write the half of it), but eventually it became more comfortable. Owen 'scored a bird' as he would say and left early. Gwen and Tosh giggled quite a lot, which was a welcome sight to see in both of them, especially Tosh. Gwen has had Rhys, but Tosh has had no one these past months.

And I...well, I have to admit that while I didn't leave with a girl, I did leave with a phone number. Tosh is already bothering me to call her. I'm not sure if I will. Torchwood makes those sorts of things hard, although it would seem Owen manages it somehow. Then again, he never sees those girls again; that's not my style, and this girl seemed nice.

We'll see. Maybe I'll run into her at the Dockside again, Rift willing.

* * *

_2 April 2008_

Jack,

Harold Saxon is not a man to be trusted, of this I am sure. I have had to field far too many phone calls from the man regarding Torchwood. The PM is briefed on Torchwood business on a strictly need-to-know business, yet apparently Saxon feels like he needs to know everything even though is not yet the Prime Minister.

I've talked my way around him so many times I think he trusts me about as much as I trust him—which is not at all. Something is not right at Downing Street.

* * *

_8 April 2008_

Jack,

I can't believe it's been almost two and a half months now. Whatever went down when Owen busted my lip and I broke his nose (I told you there was much more to it) seems to have purged our demons, at least for now. That may be simply because the Rift is quiet again, and freakishly so. Owen is practically convinced it's going to spit out an army of Cybermen on our doorstep. I glared at him when he said that, and to everyone's surprise, he apologized. And here I thought they had all forgot about Lisa and my connection to Canary Wharf.

We went to the Dockside together, bitched about Saxon, and ran into Morgan again. She was the girl who gave me her number. I never did call her, and the first thing she asked me was why.

Imagine me trying to explain the odd hours of the Welsh Tourist Office nearby where I worked. Now I know what the rest of you must experience when I roll my eyes; she was a master at it. But she had beautiful eyes.

I'm not sure why I'm writing this. It's been so long now it seems unlikely you're coming back. And yet if you do, what then? I wrote that I wouldn't assume anything, that I couldn't wait forever...and yet it was hard, taking those first tentative steps toward someone new after losing so much.

I think it had more to do with Lisa than you, to be honest. Yes, I can almost picture your ego crumbling if you were to ever read this! And yet, it's true: whatever we had for those few months was completely different than what I had with Lisa, and Morgan reminds me very much of Lisa with her quick wit, her beautiful eyes, her confident manner. You were my boss, my friend, a man, and apparently immortal…all so very different from them both.

Even if we had been interested in more, we didn't have time to explore any of the possibilities there might have been before you died and left us. I suppose it's time for me to explore those sorts of things with someone else. It's been almost six months since Lisa died at Canary Wharf, and almost three since you left. Morgan and I had a good time at the pub, so I'm hoping our date on Friday isn't interrupted by the Rift.

You would like her, Jack.

* * *

_13 April 2008_

Jack Harkness.

You goddamn bastard.

Guess where I spent my day off? Tiny little island, dirty little medical facility, brilliant woman named Helen, ring any bells?

You should have told us, Jack. You should have told at least one of us about Flat Holm before you fucking swanned off and left. Because you not only abandoned us, but you abandoned  _them._ Helen had no idea you were gone. Supplies were low and she was calling about a patient who had died.  _Died_ , Jack. One of those poor people died, sick and alone on that god-forsaken island.

I'm not blaming you for his death. But maybe if I had known, I could have done something. Owen could have done something. Hell, maybe even _you_  could have done something. But no—it's yet another secret you kept from us, and even more importantly, from me. Perhaps you didn't trust me as your friend, but as your administrator, you should have told me. There is no excuse for leaving them like that.

I haven't told the team. Once Helen explained things to me (and I guessed the rest), I told her the truth about your absence and promised I'd do everything I could do to help. If you ever come back, you'll find you approved a fairly major diversion of funds in the budget. And from your private accounts. They need it, and they deserve it. I'm doing it for them, Jack, not for you. Because right now I am so angry at you I could spit nails.

Get a grip on your soul searching and come back. You have a cross here you never asked us to bear.

* * *

_19 April 2008_

Jack,

Flat Holm has what they need. I've managed to track down your files and suppliers and funnel it all through the same channels you've been using to keep it so secret. I went back out there this weekend and helped with the deliveries, then took notes on what else I could do. I sat with Helen and met some more of the residents.

And I understand it better, what you did and why you did it. It is the most heartbreaking place in the world, I think, and you did more for them than anyone has. But you didn't need to protect me, because I could have helped them, too. I could have helped _you_.

They're being taken care of now, Jack. But Helen will probably slap you if you come back. Just so you know.

* * *

_27 April, 2008_

Jack,

For one of the rare times since I came to Cardiff, the Rift seemed willing to cooperate. I spent the entire night with Morgan: dinner, some dancing at a local club, a drink back at her place. It was refreshing. The last time I went out with anyone was the weekend before Canary Wharf, when Lisa and I went to our favorite Indian restaurant and met some friends after. That was ten months ago. There have been times since then that I thought it would never happen again. It was a relief to know that life does indeed go on, that loss really does become less painful with time. I've lost so much since coming here, including you.

And yet even though you are gone, it was thoughts of you that kept interrupting: the first time you dragged me out Weevil hunting, my first night staying at the Hub, New Year's Eve on the rooftop of the Millennium Centre. You could be thousands of light years away, but it's like you're still here, still a part of the team, still a part of our lives.

We're going to see  _Cloverfield_ this weekend. It's been out for a while now, and I imagine I'll find all sorts of things wrong with it given I've lived through far worse than a CGI monster stampeding across New York. I'll have to keep quiet, though, won't I? And simply enjoy the chance to play at a normal life for once, no matter what is happening on screen—or at Torchwood.

* * *

_4 May 2008_

Jack,

The movie was terrible, absolutely ridiculous. You would have loved it.

Did I mention I got shot after?

Bloody Torchwood.

* * *

_9 May 2008_

Jack,

The Rift is behaving relatively normal, with good days and bad days. The team is getting along. My arm is healing well in spite of Owen's sniggers about payback. I've seen Morgan several times now, though it has been difficult explaining my arm, my odd hours, and the black SUV that pulled up outside the café where we were dining the other night and dragged me away after a large Weevil sighting.

Oh, and Gwen is engaged.

Not sure how you're going to take that, but there it is.

Flat Holm is doing better. Don't get me wrong, I'm still pissed about that little secret even if I understand the situation. Helen is a good woman and those people deserve the best care. They've suffered enough, and I've done what I can for them.

Our biggest problem remains Downing Street. I'm not looking forward to the election; I wanted to support Harold Saxon, until he started practically stalking Torchwood. Do you know he actually asked me (and not Gwen, for some reason) to come to London to meet with him? Before being elected as Prime Minister?

I politely declined right as Tosh rigged the alarms to go off for a false Rift alert. There is something not quite right about him. I wish you were here, you'd feel it too.

* * *

_11 May 2008_

Jack,

The attempt at a life outside Torchwood fails. Morgan decided she couldn't be with someone who had such strange work hours, who got shot and made up stories about it, who was obviously hiding something that involved large black SUVs and a gun holster.

She thinks I'm either MI6 or some sort of undercover black ops agent. If it wasn't so close to the truth—bit of both, when you think about it—I'd laugh. She was nice, and we had a good time together, but that's Torchwood for you. Owen might have the right way of it, going on the pull for the sex and not the relationship. Tosh would disagree, and Gwen would start lecturing us about how important it is for her to get home to her normal life with Rhys, but for some people, Torchwood claims us, heart and soul, and there is no return to the normal world.

I am claimed.

* * *

_14 May 2008_

Jack,

Seeing as it's been over three months, I've decided to stop writing my entries like this. I want to say that I've moved on, but I can't truly do that if I keep this up. Look at what happened with Morgan.

Also, Tosh found out and told me to stop. She is quite possibly the wisest woman I know and the best friend a man could have, so I do what she tells me.

You've gone to be with your Doctor. I think we've all accepted that you are not coming back. More importantly, we've realized we can do this on our own. We're a team—a damaged, dysfunctional team, yes, but we've managed to protect Cardiff for over three months. No one on the team has died, and the city is still standing. We can do this. We  _will_  do this, for Cardiff.

I hope you are happy and that you find your answers. But just so you know, Torchwood will always have a place for you, Jack. This team will always have a place for you…for you, your coat, your braces, and even your antique Webley. For your grin and your laugh, your incurable flirting and your rooftop brooding. And even if it's long after I'm gone, I hope that you do return someday, because Torchwood was better because of you.

* * *

_23 May 2008_

Harold Saxon is now the Prime Minister. I just got off the phone with him and there is already trouble: possible Rift activity reported in the Himalayas, which UNIT believes could be connected to the Rift opening here in January. Our presence is deemed necessary, and despite our lack of jurisdiction, we are ordered to investigate immediately. All four of us, personally by the new PM.

I don't like it. I don't like leaving the Hub unmanned and Cardiff unprotected. I do not trust Harold Saxon. Will record the details upon our return.

* * *

_31 May 2008_

The trip to Pakistan was a complete disaster, and we are lucky to be alive.

I have contacted the palace directly to request—no, to demand—an inquiry into the decisions that were made and the actions that were taken in regards to this case. We were sent to investigate something that did not exist, and we were almost killed by an avalanche that was deliberately triggered while we were there. We were then detained under suspicious circumstances for several days, and when we finally returned home, we learned that Harold Saxon had killed the President of the United States, only to be murdered in turn by his own wife.

This is not a coincidence.

There is no doubt in my mind we were set up. By whom, I don't know: UNIT, the MOD, Harold Saxon himself? UNIT will not answer my questions, though I suspect from the reactions I've had to my inquires that they are as confused as we are right now. The MOD is not taking my calls; Downing Street is obviously in an uproar.

As we are funded directly by the crown, I will speak with them personally. I leave for London on Monday for an audience at the palace. I will find the answers.

* * *

_1 June 2008_

Jack,

I would have taken the shot.

Your former partner is a bloody psychopath.

There is a new Pan-Asian restaurant on the Quay that looks quite good for dinner.

Welcome home.

Ianto.

* * *

 


	2. The Hotel

The Hotel

Jack closed Ianto's diary, breathing deeply through the complex range of emotions raging in his chest: guilt, shame, fear, anger, love, loss. He had abandoned them without a word. Yes, he'd needed to leave before the TARDIS dematerialized. Yes, he thought he'd be back sooner. And yes, he'd screwed up by not even leaving a post-it note, let alone some sort of pre-written letter or recording so they would know why he'd left, where he'd gone, what they needed to do.

Ianto's diary told him, more than anything, how difficult it had been for them all, how much he had hurt them by leaving without a word, especially so soon after Abaddon. Of course, it had been even worse for them before Jack had destroyed the Paradox Machine and reset time, but his team didn't know that. Only Jack knew how much they had suffered under the Master, and his heart still ached with a loss that never really happened, even as it rejoiced to be back with his team, in a place he had never accepted as his home until he'd left it.

That Ianto had given him the diary to read spoke volumes of the man's trust. Jack wondered if he deserved it, especially after reading about Flat Holm. Yet his doubt was replaced by such an overwhelming sense of pride and affection that all he could do was shake his head: Ianto Jones had saved him not once that year, but many, many times.

He tried not to think of how much John Hart had messed up his homecoming; that would tip him over the edge, and right now he needed to settle his future with a good man, not fight the demons of his past.

Taking one last deep breath, Jack stood and left the room where he'd be spending the night, avoiding himself after the Rift reset. He was more nervous than when he had asked Ianto on a date in the office building. Although he suspected Ianto would be waiting for him—waiting for his reaction, his explanation, anything—he really wasn't sure how Ianto would respond. The man had been distant the entire night. But Ianto deserved Jack's honesty; in fact, he deserved much more. Jack was humbled by the unwavering loyalty and faith shown in the diary. Jack had helped save humanity from being enslaved by a renegade Time Lord, and yet one man had reminded him of how fallible and fragile he truly was with only a few words.

Sometimes he wasn't sure whether to curse or thank Ianto Jones for that.

Gathering courage before Ianto's door, he lifted his hand, let it fall, then raised it again and knocked, forcing himself to step backward and wait patiently. The door opened quickly to reveal Ianto, his jacket off, shirtsleeves rolled up with his tie undone, and a tumbler of scotch in one hand.

Scotch. How many times had they shared a drink in Jack's office before he'd run off? The memories flooded over him, and Ianto glanced down at his glass as if he sensed Jack's thoughts. He stepped aside and silently motioned Jack into his suite.

There was a second tumbler on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Either Ianto had company, or he had been waiting for someone. Jack really hoped it was the latter and that it was him, because he wanted more than anything to sit and talk over a drink, like they had many times before he'd left. He held out the diary, unsure what to say. Ianto took the black book, set it down on the table, and handed him the second glass. Jack stared down into the amber liquid; he had no office jokes to make this time, and he struggled with where to begin.

Ianto, however, saved him once more. He raised his glass ever so slightly. "Welcome back," he said, and Jack's head snapped up. Yes, he was back.

And he was staying. He knew what he was, he knew what he had to do, and more importantly, he knew what he wanted. He wanted Ianto's forgiveness, and even more, his companionship. The long year on the  _Valiant_  had given him time to think, had forced Jack to realize that for all the times that he tried to keep people at a distance, he still cared, he still worried, he still loved. Trying not to feel those things wasn't going to stop him from actually feeling them. And his team—especially this man before him—were central to that. They were his life now; he only hoped that his actions, as well as his past, hadn't ruined any chance he had to make things right.

"Ianto," he started, swirling the amber liquid in circles, still unable to meet the other man's piercing blue eyes. "I need you to know…I hope you know that I'm—"

Ianto sighed as he raised his hand and stopped him. "I know, Jack. You don't have to say it."

Jack's eyes closed in relief at the man's simple acceptance as Ianto moved away and sat down on the couch, apparently waiting for Jack to continue. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes.

"Yes, I do. I have to. You said you didn't understand, in your diary, and I want you to understand, so you'll forgive me. Especially after tonight."

Ianto raised an eyebrow, though the quirk of his lips was slightly ironic. "If you read it correctly, I did forgive you. John Hart is another story."

Jack nodded; he'd been right about John's effect then. "I know, but John Hart is an arsehole. Forget about him, please. He's gone. I'm talking about everything else. I need you to know why I left so you can really decide whether I deserve your forgiveness."

"Everyone deserves forgiveness," said Ianto, knocking back his drink and setting the empty glass on the table. He leaned back against the couch, eyes to the ceiling before gazing directly at Jack. "You have mine. Unequivocally."

Jack thought his legs might give out right there. His breath left him as he set down his glass before falling onto the sofa next to Ianto. He let his head fall to his chest and ran a hand over the back of his neck, but he couldn't stop his heart from beating faster as he tried to catch a breath, or the sparks of wetness that grew in his eyes as he choked back tears.

What did he ever do to deserve such a thing?

The Doctor had abandoned him, had called him wrong, had offered little support until the end, but by then it had been too late, for Jack had made his choice. It was as if his heart had known what waited for him if he returned, in contrast to staying with the Doctor: friendship and loyalty and this unconditional support and forgiveness. It was stunning and terrifying at the same time.

"Why?" was all he managed to get out through a jaw clenched tight with emotion. Ianto seemed to hesitate before speaking, and then answered with words that broke Jack's heart all over again.

"Because you'd do the same for me—in fact, you did once."

Jack's eyes snapped up to Ianto's, which were gazing steadily at Jack, yet remained slightly distant. Jack thought he could never tire of gazing into those eyes, for though he had seen them filled with anger and pain and loss, they were also filled with an acceptance he had rarely found on Earth, or, more recently, with the Doctor.

"I left you," Jack whispered hoarsely. "I left without a word, and there wasn't a day over the course of the year that I didn't regret it—not saying anything, not being able to come back."

Ianto went very still, frown lines appearing between his eyebrows. "A year, Jack? But it's only been a few months for us. You were gone for an entire year?"

"A year that never happened." Jack nodded, then couldn't help but laugh bitterly. "At least for the rest of the planet. Some of us remember it, though."

They were silent for a long moment as Jack tried not to relive the terrible memories, and Ianto attempted to process what he had just heard.

"It was a bad year, then?" he asked, and Jack turned toward him, offered a wan smile, and simply nodded.

"The worst I've ever known."

Silence again, then:

"Hell of a way to return, showing up with a psychopath right behind you."

Jack blew out a shaky breath that was half a laugh and shook his head. "Not how I imagined my homecoming, no."

"What—Gwen paralyzed, Owen shot, and you killed?" Ianto wasn't looking at him and Jack wasn't sure whether the man was offering his trademark dry wit or a more critical commentary. The business with John Hart had been a distraction of the worst kind, and if John had messed up his chances at reconciling with Ianto, then Jack would track down the bastard and beat the shit out of him again.

"Look," Jack started in a rush, hoping to get it all in before Ianto threw him out. "I'm sorry about John. I'm sorry about what happened to Owen and Gwen and Tosh and the bomb and having to stay here all night." He stood abruptly and turned to look down at Ianto, suddenly unable to stay any longer. Yes, Ianto had reached out, had entrusted him with the diary, but there was a detachment to his bearing that Jack couldn't be sure wasn't hiding a bitterness he had not sensed from the diary. Ianto may have forgiven Jack leaving, but his return had apparently been ruined by John Hart.

"And I'm sorry I left," Jack continued. "That I left you, left the team, left the planet, but I had to." He turned around. "I have to," he whispered, more to himself, and started toward the door.

"Jack, stop." He heard Ianto stand behind him. "You don't have to leave."

Jack straightened his shoulders and turned back. "What?"

"Don't leave," said Ianto, and Jack watched as the tension left his body with one great sigh. "Not again. I didn't give you my diary to run you out. It's just…" Ianto ran a nervous hand through his hair. "It's not like I thought it would be, with all that's happened. Bit more complicated."

"I'm sorry," Jack started again, and Ianto stopped him.

"Stop apologizing," he said. "It's not your fault, not really. John Hart was bad timing, I suppose."

"He always was," Jack said.

Ianto sat down and gestured to Jack to join him. "Always such a bloody prick, too?" he asked.

"Oh yes," said Jack, tentatively sitting down again and picking up his drink. "Although he's far worse now than when I knew him. I'm sorry he ruined the night."

"It's Torchwood," shrugged Ianto, but a smile pulled at his lips. "Things usually go to shit."

Jack tried not to laugh at the truth of that statement. "You did all right while I was gone," he pointed out, hoping to bring the conversation back to what really needed to be said.

"We did," Ianto agreed, a slight tone of pride in his voice. "Wasn't the same, though."

"I know," said Jack, chancing a glance at his face. "I read about it."

Ianto met his eyes. "It was hard, especially at first. Writing it down helped."

Jack laughed softly. "I can't believe you broke Owen's nose."

"I shot him," said Ianto. "Why should a few punches surprise you?"

"I don't know." Jack shrugged. "I guess I'm trying to picture you two slugging it out on the floor of the hub."

"Well, don't picture us naked, because it wasn't like that," Ianto replied dryly.

"I don't ever picture Owen like that," Jack replied, earning an eye roll from Ianto.

An awkward silence filled the room until Ianto stood. "More scotch?" he asked, and Jack nodded. There was a bottle on the desk nearby, and while Ianto poured them each another measure, Jack watched him curiously.

"Where did you get it?" he asked as Ianto handed him back his glass.

"Get what?"

"The scotch."

"Oh," said Ianto, sitting down and wrapping his tumbler with two hands. "Went down to the bar and asked for it."

Jack raised an eyebrow; he didn't know many hotels that sold entire bottles of liquor at the bar, but Ianto merely shrugged. "Took some talking and a bit more cash, plus I may have dropped some names, but I figured someone was going to need it tonight." He paused to take a sip. "Have you talked to any of the others?"

Jack shook his head and stretched his neck. "No, not really. I talked to Gwen some downstairs at the Hub; she tried to get me to tell her what had happened. I knew she was engaged before I read it."

Ianto's face was unreadable as he seemed to think carefully on his words. "And how are you with that?"

"I'm happy for her," Jack replied, which was true to a certain point; he wasn't sure now was the time to explore how complicated that happiness was.

"I know how you feel about her," Ianto murmured. "And how she feels about you."

Jack glanced sideways at Ianto; sometimes the man was far too perceptive for his own good. "I don't feel what you think I do, and she doesn't feel what she thinks she does."

"Could have fooled the rest of us," Ianto replied, his face more impassive than usual.

"Yes, well, that's our game," Jack replied with a sigh. "I'm here to set things right with you, not her. Besides, I think she's almost as pissed at me for coming back as she is with me for leaving."

Ianto snorted at that, and Jack hoped the lingering tension over the subject could be tabled for another time. "She's not going to give up being in charge quite so easily, I suspect."

"Did she do all right?" Jack asked, leaning forward and wanting to know. "Honestly."

Ianto swirled his drink, took another sip and set it down. "She did fine. She did what she could, when she could. And when she couldn't, we stepped in for her." He shrugged. "Owen bickered with her a lot just to bicker, but Tosh tried to explain what was going on if she tried to blunder in blindly."

"And you?" asked Jack. "You led behind the lines?"

"I took care of the paperwork," said Ianto, a crooked smile gracing his face. "And the people work. If she knew half of what I went through with UNIT and the MOD, she wouldn't want to be in charge."

"Sometimes I don't want to be in charge," Jack murmured, shaking his head ruefully. Ianto's comment about the MOD sparked something inside of him. "Your diary. You mentioned Harold Saxon several times. He…" Jack found himself hesitating, the words difficult to say, but he took a deep breath and forced them out; it was as good a place to start as any. "He was the reason I was gone so long. He was the reason I couldn't come back."

Ianto eyed him as if trying to put the pieces together. "He was always asking about you. I told him nothing."

Jack smiled, nodding as he thought back on memories full of both pain and pride. "I know. You resisted him for as long as you could. You were so brave, fought so hard."

"Were?" asked Ianto more sharply than normal, picking up on Jack's phrasing. "You mean, before everyone forgot the worst year that ever happened?"

"Something like that," Jack murmured. He took a deep breath and plunged on. He couldn't share everything, not that night when it was still so raw, but he needed to explain enough that Ianto would truly understand. He deserved it; he had fought hard while Jack was on the  _Valiant_ , and even in this time, he had held off Harold Saxon as best as he could. Jack was so proud of him, of his instincts and his determination.

"Harold Saxon wasn't human," he finally said, his words soft and low. He screwed his eyes shut even though visions of the long year on the  _Valiant_  fluttered across his lids. "He was a Time Lord, a forgotten Time Lord—and a very bad one, at that." Ianto made an indelicate noise.

"Why am I not surprised," he said. "The Prime Minister of Great Britain, turning out to be an evil alien overlord."

"And you're not even raising an eyebrow," Jack replied. "Which is why you are so amazing. Owen would be sitting here rolling his eyes, Tosh would be asking all sorts of questions, and Gwen would be denying it. You just know." He stared at the floor, trying to gather himself for more. Really, he wanted to curl up in Ianto's arms if he was going to go through this, even to scratch the surface of it. As if he sensed Jack's need, Ianto reached out and touched his knee. Jack glanced back up and exchanged a wordless look with the other man before Ianto nodded, slowly pulling Jack toward him, so that Jack lay with his back against Ianto's chest. It felt wonderful: warm and welcome and comforting. They hadn't been the type to cuddle much before Jack had left, but he'd been chained up alone for so long on the  _Valiant_ that to have a pair of strong arms around him, holding him, was exactly what he needed at that moment. He could have stayed there forever.

"I was at Torchwood One, remember," Ianto said. "I probably know more about Time Lords than your average Torchwood employee."

Jack tilted his head up and cocked an eyebrow. "There's a such thing as an average Torchwood employee?"

Ianto laughed. "I suppose not, but I've seen enough now to rarely be surprised. I knew you'd gone with the Doctor, I recognized his ship. And Gwen told us what you had shared with her, so we had some idea of why you left, even though we were still in shock at the suddenness of it. I think we understood, Jack, but it was so hard to accept. And it hurt, not even saying goodbye. After so many weeks and months, we assumed you weren't going to return."

"I wanted to," said Jack so softly he could barely hear himself. "I thought about it every day, every time I died and came back. I—"

Ianto interrupted him, his voice sharp once more. "You died again? How many times?"

"Too many," Jack murmured without thinking, his mind lost in memories. Ianto swore, and Jack felt the other man's arms tighten around him protectively.

"Tell me what happened, Jack," he said, his voice firm but compassionate. Underlying it all, he could sense Ianto's anger, though it wasn't directed at him, not really. Instead, it was directed at the situation itself, at whatever had happened to Jack, at whoever had done it—the Doctor, Harold Saxon, all of them.

Jack owed him the truth. If he was going to take this man on a real date and try for something more, he was going to be honest about what had happened while he was gone. Jack was used to keeping secrets, and he certainly had more than enough that would remain his to bear alone, including some things that had happened on the  _Valiant_ , but right then Ianto deserved to know what Jack could tell him, and for once, Jack wanted to share. So he began.

"Harold Saxon was a Time Lord known as the Master, and he was completely, utterly insane. He came back in time and set himself up as Harold Saxon in order to become Prime Minister, and when he did, he caused the end of life on earth as we know it."

"He killed the American President," said Ianto, and Jack shook his head.

"No, he didn't, but when we reset time, that's what everyone thought. He had an army of cyborgs—they were the last remnants of the human race from the end of the universe, trapped in machines and brought back through time to take over the planet. They killed millions, and he used the Earth to build enough ships and weapons to start his conquest of the entire galaxy." Jack closed his eyes once more and shuddered as he thought of the madman and what he had done to him, to the Doctor, to the Jones family and countless others. Ianto rubbed his hands up and down Jack's arms as if to warm him.

"But isn't that a paradox?" he asked softly. Brilliant Ianto. Of all the questions, he was staying away from the ones that would hurt the most and asking the ones that Jack could answer without breaking down, simple questions about space and time. Like Tosh probably would, but Ianto did it for completely different reasons. Jack actually laughed.

"Of course it is. He used the Doctor's ship to create a Paradox Machine so that he could hold it all together. When the Doctor and I finally escaped—"

"You were held captive for an entire year," said Ianto, his voice tinged with disbelief and that touch of anger again, and Jack nodded.

"Yes, an entire year. The Doctor's companion, Martha Jones, managed to avoid being taken, and she spent the year walking the earth, gathering support for an uprising. It allowed the Doctor and I to escape, and the first thing I did was destroy the Paradox Machine."

"Which is what reset time," said Ianto, nodding in understanding.

Jack shook his head in amazement, tilted his head around, and impulsively pressed his lips to Ianto's, causing the other man to gasp in surprise before Ianto opened his mouth to Jack and returned the kiss, and it was like nothing had changed: Jack hadn't gone to Abaddon, hadn't died, hadn't left with the Doctor. He was back, he was home, and Ianto was there and he was—

Jack couldn't help but chuckle into the kiss. Ianto pulled away and gave him a withering look. "Something funny?"

"You said you weren't waiting, in your diary," Jack pointed out, feeling rather cheeky after the success of one simple kiss.

"You caught me in between pulls," Ianto tossed back. "Maybe if you're lucky you can be the next one."

Jack laughed again. "Who've you been sparring with while I was gone then?"

"Owen, of course," Ianto deadpanned.

"Flirting, too?"

"God, no."

"Hm." Jack turned back and relaxed into Ianto's embrace again. "You really are amazing, you know," he murmured.

"Yes, well apparently, you saved the world," said Ianto. "Understanding the logistics of it hardly compares." His breath ghosted across Jack's ear, sending shivers down his spine.

Ianto's simple touch was more than he had expected; he had imagined so much anger and hurt from them all that he had sometimes questioned his decision to return. Yet even without Ianto by his side, Torchwood was where he was meant to be; Cardiff was his home. To have returned to something he had been imagining for an entire long year—Ianto's arms wrapped around him, comforting him—was more than he could have possibly hoped for.

"Why do you still remember?" asked Ianto, interrupting his thoughts.

"Because I was so close to the epicentre of the paradox, I suppose," said Jack. "At least, that's what the Doctor said. Only those of us there at the moment that time reset actually remember everything." He paused and closed his eyes. "Though sometimes I wish I didn't." Another shudder wracked through him, and Ianto pulled him closer.

"Did you find your answers?" he asked, his voice hesitant, as if afraid of Jack's response.

For some reason, the question made Jack shrink away as he thought about the Doctor's words -  _You're wrong, Jack_. God, how his heart had broken when he'd heard that. He was wrong. He was something that was never meant to be, yet he still existed and always would. Sitting up reluctantly, he ran nervous hands along his thighs and laughed bitterly once again.

"I did, but they weren't the answers I was looking for."

Ianto didn't say anything, didn't ask, somehow knowing when to push and when to stay quiet. Jack pulled away from Ianto, unable to bear the other man's comfort for his last, most damning confession.

"I can never die," Jack whispered. "Ever. I have the energy of the time vortex inside me, which means I will probably live to see the end of the universe." The realization sunk in; he'd already been to the end of the universe. "All over again."

He stood up and began pacing, feeling Ianto watching with wary concern.

"I'm wrong," Jack told him, all of it hitting hard as the implications of being back at Torchwood—of being with Ianto—suddenly, unexpectedly overwhelmed him. "The Doctor said that I'm wrong, something that was never meant to be. Something impossible. I can't ever die," he repeated. "And yet I did, over and over throughout that long year, only I always came back. I always will. No one can fix it. I am forever."

Jack had had several minor meltdowns after the Doctor had spoken those damning words, even though he'd long suspected the truth. When he was chained up and alone, injured and suffering on the  _Valiant_ ; when he had died again and come back to the same hell he'd just left; when he had watched his team fight to the death against Saxon and lose: each time he railed against the Doctor and even Rose Tyler for doing this to him. It wasn't fair, it wasn't right, it couldn't be real.

Except it was real, a living nightmare he'd never escape. He had forever; the people he had come back for did not. Ianto did not.

Jack's hands started shaking. He felt his heart rate increase, his breath coming in quicker and quicker gasps. He wanted to run, to find the nearest rooftop and scream obscenities to the universe, forcing him to watch everyone around him age and die, while he never did and never would. It was a universe that he would live to see the end of, and then what? What happened when the universe ended? Would he finally be allowed to die with it?

Would he even be sane enough to care by that point? Because Jack was certain he would go mad, living and loving and losing everyone around him for thousands and thousands of years. He couldn't do it. He wouldn't do it. He—

He fell to his knees, unable to breathe. And then Ianto was there, kneeling before him with his hands on Jack's shoulders, a steady pressure grounding him. Blue eyes captured his own and forced Jack to focus, and then with a nod Ianto began breathing with him, slow and steady. Jack felt his control returning, the fear receding, leaving him with only the dull ache he felt each and every time the reality of the Doctor's confirmation overwhelmed him.

"Did I just have a panic attack?" he asked, trying for a smile. The other man nodded seriously.

"I think you did. First time?"

Jack shook his head. "Not really, but it was the first time someone brought me out of it like that. Thank you."

Ianto seemed to be contemplating something, then reached out to put one arm on Jack's shoulder and pulled him close, the other arm moving around his back to hold him tight. Jack stiffened for a moment before relaxing into an embrace he never wanted to leave.

"I'm sorry," whispered Ianto, laying his head against Jack's. "I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault," Jack laughed through tears he didn't know he was shedding. "Why are you apologizing?"

"Because I'm sorry it happened," Ianto replied, pulling back to gaze into Jack's eyes. "Because Gwen said you went to find answers, only you were captured and tortured instead, and found there really is no answer for what happened to you. You don't deserve that, Jack."

Jack gazed at him in wonder. "I don't deserve you, Ianto Jones."

"Yes, well," Ianto ducked his head as he offered a small roll of his eyes. "Not sure anyone does, but that's another story altogether." He stood and offered his hand to Jack, pulling him up with a smile.

"Speaking of that particular story," started Jack, and he snaked his arms around Ianto's waist, pulling them flush against one another. He needed to reassure himself, reassert his place in this life, whatever it may be, however long it might last. "I was serious about that date, you know."

Ianto nodded slowly. "And I was serious about my answer."

Jack grinned, feeling better than he had in months "Good. I didn't want to think being shoved into an elevator at gunpoint put you off."

Ianto groaned and stepped out of their embrace. "You had to go and ruin the moment."

"Sorry," Jack said, and he could have kicked himself. He was so unsure of where he stood, he was making stupid mistakes. He had to keep reminding himself that it was real, that Ianto had truly forgiven him. "I'm sorry, I have bad timing too…" He trailed off at the raised eyebrows.

"We should see how the others are doing," Ianto said. He walked back to the table and finished the rest of his drink. "They want to see you, too. To know what happened."

Jack frowned, shaking his head. "No, Ianto, I…I can't tell them all that. I came here to talk to you, to make sure you understood how sorry I am that I left you like that and that you—"

Ianto stepped forward and kissed him silent. Jack practically melted into it, a low moan escaping his lips before he could stop it. Ianto pulled back and grinned at him.

"And you did, and I do, and I think it would be best if we stopped where we are and went and saw the others." Ianto nodded, more to himself than at Jack. "We can't simply fall into bed and shag it away, Jack. You were gone for months. I didn't think you were coming back. I didn't think we'd be anything if you did." He paused and glanced down, blowing out a long breath. "We should take it slowly."

Jack nodded; he hadn't thought about it, but Ianto was right. It would probably be better for both of them, anyway. Ianto had accepted him back, had accepted his invitation on a date, but he had also begun to move on before Jack had returned so unexpectedly. He had changed, and so had Jack. And though Ianto offered forgiveness, Jack knew he would have to earn back the man's trust. Ianto had written that he wasn't going to assume anything about their relationship, and Jack realized he had to do the same: in spite of how he felt at that moment, in spite of the kisses, they would have to rediscover one another. And the best way to do that was to go slowly…though he secretly hoped it wouldn't take too long.

"All right, slowly it is. Seems proper." Jack couldn't help but wink to show there were no hard feelings. "Very 21st century."

Ianto rolled his eyes as he grabbed his suit coat from a nearby chair. "I doubt anything about it will be very 21st century, but we can try." As he pulled on the coat, a smile passed over his face. "Dinner and a movie first—and no interruptions this time."

"We can hope," Jack said, motioning at the door and following him out. He could have descended into maudlin apologetics over John Hart again, but refused; he felt like he'd reached an understanding with Ianto, so instead he offered a dry comment in response. "I know I've attracted some unsavory characters in my time, but hopefully they—"

Without warning, Ianto doubled over, and to Jack's slight annoyance, he realized the other man was laughing. "Unsavory? Jack, you could be the definition of it yourself."

"Is that why you like me?" Jack asked, trying not to be offended and mostly succeeding; he did have a past, after all.

"Of course not," said Ianto. "Besides, who said I like you?"

"You said yes when I asked you out," Jack reminded him.

"Moment of weakness," Ianto tossed back. Jack reached out and grabbed his hand, pulling him close.

"Ianto Jones, you are the strongest man I know," he murmured, and he kissed him again right there in the hallway, unable to resist. This time Ianto did not pull away, but pressed against him in response. Jack was about to turn them back toward the room—or at least the wall—when a door opened nearby and a head popped out.

"Oi!" called Owen. "Thought we heard you out here, though this is not what I wanted to see when I opened my door!"

Ianto stepped back and straightened his clothing, looking anywhere but at the doctor. Jack turned and gave Owen a bland look. "Then shut the door, Owen."

"No way," he said. "You owe us an explanation for all this shit, too, not just your snogging partner. Especially since your boyfriend shot me."

Jack knew Owen was talking about John Hart, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Ianto smother a grin as he glanced away. "We'll be right there."

"Great. The girls are ready to order all the room service they'll send us." The door slammed shut, and Jack sighed.

"You were right," he said softly, staring at the closed door. "I guess I should talk to them too."

"I am usually right about those things," Ianto agreed.

"I'd rather not tell them everything," Jack said, finding Ianto's eyes with a pleading look. "It was hard enough earlier."

"Then don't tell them everything," Ianto replied. "Keep it simple. Ask questions instead, find out how they are. And tell them they did good."

Jack cocked his head. "Did I tell you? That you did good?"

Ianto looked down and shook his head. Jack tilted his chin up and met his eyes once more. "You did good," he whispered. "Thank you." Another kiss pressed to lips so warm and real Jack could kiss them all night. This time it was Ianto who laughed against him.

"Stop it," he said, moving quickly toward Owen's door. "Or I won't be able to take it slowly."

"It was your idea, not mine," Jack murmured as Ianto knocked. Ianto turned and gave him a steady look.

"Dinner and a movie first."

"James Bond?" asked Jack.

"That's not until November, and even I'm not waiting that long."

The door opened then. "What's not until November?" demanded Owen. Tosh and Gwen were sitting on the sofa and glanced up with anxious faces. Jack wasn't sure whether they were worried for him or for Ianto. Watching the way they smiled supportively at Ianto, apparently it was the latter. He couldn't blame them; he would be too. He stayed back, unsure of his reception after the confrontation at the Hub and the long night since.

Ianto moved toward the sofa, sitting next to Tosh and offering her a small smile with a nod before he glanced over at Jack. She followed his gaze and smiled at Jack as well, and for some reason he felt ten times less nervous, knowing that at least two of the people he cared about the most were supporting him.

This was his team. He had come back for them. He had come back for Ianto. He couldn't imagine being anywhere else in the universe at that moment than with this damaged, dysfunctional group of amazing individuals. He sought Ianto's reassurance as he stepped farther into the room and found the other man watching him steadily before Ianto offered the barest of nods in support, the small smile on his face lighting up the acceptance in his eyes.

Jack turned toward the others and took a deep breath, feeling more comfortable, confident, and content than he had in ages.

He was home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! Please see the beginning of this story for additional notes if you missed them. And if you didn't have a chance to comment when the archives were wonky, I'd love to know what you think. Thank you for reading!
> 
>  


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